Men of the West!
by Elendil-of-Arnor
Summary: There were more heroes in the War of the Ring than the main heroes we all know. Look in here, dear reader and find out who they are. FINAL CHAPTER NOW UP!
1. Default Chapter

MEN OF THE WEST  
By  
Elendil-of-Arnor  
  
Disclaimer: I don't the characters.  
  
Chapter 1: Calm Before the Storm  
  
It was gloriously beautiful day in the Westfold of Rohan, but the once flowing; fertile fields of the once fair land were now trampled and scored by the iron-shod feet of the orcs, Uruk-hai, men and horses.  
Into this barren and desolate land a young man cantered on his horse, followed by his wife and two small children. He had only recently returned from the slaughter at the Hornburg. He was weary of battle and wanted nothing more than to retire in his home and start up the farm again.  
He was surprised the old place had survived. The wild men and orcs had obviously not followed the treacherous Saruman's orders as closely as he had planned.  
"But all is well," he thought. "I have done my part in this war."  
"Folcwine!" he heard his wife, Rian, call. "Please help me with the baggage and for the sake of the gods, do take off your armour! You will see no more of battle and war."  
"I'll help you with the baggage," said Folcwine, "Let me- Wait! What is that?"  
They turned to see a line of horsemen charging for them, led by Grimbold. "You are Folcwine, are you not?" said Grimbold.  
"I am," said Folcwine. "What trouble stirs, Grimbold?"  
"The beacons of Minas Tirith are lit. Gondor calls for aid. Theoden King feels the need to muster the Rohirrim and ride to Gondor's aid."  
"Gondor!" said Folcwine. "Gondor. What a land of arrogant braggarts! They have never come to our aid! Why should we come to theirs?"  
"Everything you said may well be true, Folcwine," said Grimbold. "But Gondor is the last free bastion of the West. If it falls.besides, the Oath of Cirion and Eorl yet stands. Rohan will honour her alliance with Gondor, whether you say yea or nay. We have not time to decide, Folcwine. Will you ride with us or no? If you ride, you will probably fall, but you will have died for the freedom of you and of all your kin. If you decide nay, then you will be remembered for nothing, save as one who refused to participate in defence of the West."  
Folcwine looked from Grimbold to Rian and back to Grimbold. "May I?" he asked Grimbold.  
"Make it brief," said Grimbold. Folcwine walked with his wife to their cottage door. "Rian." he paused.  
"Say no more," said Rian. "Rohan has need of you more than I. I would not have you shirk your duty for me. But promise me, Folcwine, please promise me, that when your duty is done, ride to our door once more." "I promise," Folcwine said thickly. He kissed his two small sons, Freawine and Deor on the forehead, hugged them, and jumped on his horse. "I am ready," he said. "Column forward!" bellowed Grimbold. "We ride for Dunharrow!" The 500 men of the Westfold rode westwards. Folcwine looked back at his ever-receding farmhouse, until it was but a speck on the horizon. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
It was cold and dark. Very dark. So dark, Belecthor, Captain of Gondor had to reach out his hand to grope out the nearest wall in the ruined western side of Osgiliath. He was able to discern two shapes coming towards him. "Father!" called one of the ghostly figures. "Aratan!" "Ondoher!" yelled Belecthor. "How are you two feeling?"  
"As well as can be expected, father," said Aratan, "But our visit is far from social. We come on an errand from Captain Faramir. He wishes to meet with you to formulate a plan."  
Belecthor placed his hand on his chest in token of salute and moved as swiftly as possible through the ruined city to meet the senior Captain.  
His face was weary and drawn, younger than his thirty-eight years, but his stride was still long and his eye as keen as a hawk. "Belecthor! Orcs are ready to pour over the river into West Osgiliath. My plan is to let the first battalion of orcs into the city. You station your men along the western most edge of the wall. Have your 250 fine archers lace them with arrows. My swordsmen will be positioned along the bottom of the eastern wall to dispatch the next group of orcs. Position your swordsmen along the rear of the western wall to destroy any potential escapees. This has to work, Belecthor. The plan is flawed, Belecthor, but I can think of no other and have to no time to hear any other ideas. The honour of Emyn Arnen." He said, saluting by placing his hand over his chest.  
"The honour of the White Tower!" said Belecthor, doing the same gesture. He was well aware that both of his sons were in Faramir's company and would be on the front line of attack. He walked back to his lines, imagining what his wife, daughters, and one young son left at home were doing right now. Were they discussing him or would Hathaldia was doing her perpetual knitting.  
He arrived back at his position and ordered his lines as Faramir had wished. Not in all his 45 years had he ever seen a more determined yet so depressed soul. He knew that his relationship with his father, the Lord Denethor was strenuous at best, especially since Boromir had left. His lieutenant, Cirion, interrupted his thoughts. "Captain," said the rotund man, who stood in stark contrast to Belecthor's 6'3" frame. "The archers are in position." Suddenly through the darkness Belecthor could make out shapes in front of him. He could hear the sneers and growls. "Orcs!" he thought. "Curse the foul creatures!" "Fire!" he cried. And Cirion repeated the order. The lead group of orcs fell dead before him. "Reload! Aim" cried Belecthor. "Fire!" More orcs fell. The process was repeated twice more before suddenly as Belecthor was repeating the command, he saw illuminated by the torchlight of the orcs, Faramir's swordsmen fleeing from the hoard. Faramir rushed to him, breathless and panicked. "The Riders are here!" he gasped, even as he said so, mysterious winged creatures, swooped down on some of his archers, picked them up, and dropped them from a great height. He turned to Faramir. "Ondoher! Aratan! Where are they?" "I have not seen them!" said Faramir. Cirion rushed over to Belecthor. "Captains," he said, "They are-" Cirion never finished his sentence, for at that very moment, a winged rider swooped down and caught him up. Belecthor never saw him again. "Our lines are broken. The city is lost. Get your men out of here. Belecthor, my lieutenant, Madril was also lost, but their sacrifice will be in vain, if we do not make for Minas Tirith immediately." Belecthor yelled for his men to pull back. He rushed for his horse and leapt upon it and rode as fast he could back to the White Tower. His swordsmen and archers were now being brutally slaughtered. "Pull back to the city!" he cried, riding amongst his men. Most of his men had no time to grab their horses, but fled on their feet and ever and among them, the Winged Terrors, the Nazgul were grabbing his men and tearing them to shreds. It was in this moment as he rode as he could, that the Great Gate of Minas Tirith opened miles ahead. Belecthor wondered when he would be next to fall, but all of a sudden a rider clad in white sped out of the city and expelled from his staff a blinding white light that drove the Nazgul back. He then rode with Belecthor and Faramir, and what was left of his men back to the city. 


	2. Dark Clouds

CHAPTER 2  
DARK CLOUDS  
  
A/N: I am going largely by the movie version here. I do know that events took place differently in the book.  
  
It was 2 whole days that Folcwine had ridden to Dunharrow in the mountains. When he arrived, it seemed like organized chaos. Everyone there knew that this place was but a temporary halt, until all the host of the Riddermark arrived, then they would ride to Gondor.  
It had been reported that only the King and his men from Edoras were the only people who needed to arrive, now and then he saw it. The King of Rohan atop his mighty steed, leading a column of at least 1,000s from Edoras to here. Folcwine thrust his throwing axe into the air and cried, "The Westfold for Theoden King! The Westfold for Theoden King!" Theoden raised his hand in gesture that he had indeed acknowledged the presence of the men of the Westfold, but when Grimbold informed him there were only 500 men present, Theoden seemed downcast.  
Folcwine spent the afternoon, making sure his horse was fully fit and ready for the long ride. He then made sure that he had his spear, throwing axe, and sword at his side, so he could reach for them at a second's notice.  
He had a fitful rest that night and a frightful dream. He saw Minas Tirith in flames, his countrymen being massacred, Theoden King falling to the ground, and the Banner of the White Horse trodden into the Earth. He then saw his home being burned, Freawine and Deor being brutally murdered, and his wife throwing herself from a precipice.  
He awoke only to find it morning. He then heard a voice. "Ride now! Ride now to Gondor!" The moment of doom had come, but Folcwine had come too far to abandon his countrymen now. He swiftly donned his mail shirt and helm, then grabbed his sword and put that on, with his sword and throwing axe attached, he slung his shield over his back, grabbed his spear, jumped on his horse, and joined the men of Grimbold in his eored. The great ride into the East had begun.  
  
Belecthor was incensed. It was bad enough that his men had been routed out of Osgiliath and lost half of their strength, but now Faramir was organizing two hundred men for a suicidal counterattack to Osgiliath.  
His son, Ondoher was missing and there was small hope that he would be found. Aratan had miraculously survived, thanks to the speed of his horse, but in the vast city of Minas Tirith, he was nowhere to be seen. However, he did find the man at the centre of this controversy. "Faramir!" he called, striding over to him, "Faramir! This is madness. You cannot do this."  
"Then what am I to do, Belecthor? Languish in the White Tower, while one of our chief cities is in the hands of orcish scum?"  
"No! But Faramir, if you are to go, let my men go too. Or better yet, ride out with my men and the Knights of Dol Amroth. Even the Rohirrim may yet come. Can you see it, Faramir? The Riders of the Mark and Gondor will cleave our way into Osgiliath and Faramir will earn the praise of your father that you have so long craved. We will stand side-by-side and reclaim the city of Osgiliath for Gondor as your brother did so long ago!" Faramir looked unimpressed. "And how long are we to wait, Belecthor, for the horse-lords? Imrahil is occupied elsewhere and Osgiliath must be retaken as soon as possible." "Then let myself and my men go with you. Please, Faramir, your men are strong, but the enemy we encountered in Osgiliath is numerous, tens of thousands."  
Faramir was horrified. "No! Belecthor, do not ride with me. I would not have you sacrifice your life in an attempt to save mine. My life is worth nothing, Belecthor! Nothing! I was second son in life! I shall be second son in death!"  
It was Belecthor's turn to be horrified. "You're doing this for your father, aren't you?"  
"It is for Gondor, Belecthor and the good of-"  
"Come! Come, Faramir, we've known each other long enough to spout the good of Gondor rhetoric. Our friendship goes back too far."  
"I appear not to be the only one with alternate motives, Captain of Gondor. Your son, Aratan is in my company, no?"  
"Yes, Faramir, but it is not for him only, but for you also. Do you not know that this foolishness?" "Foolishness it may seem, but when you see me stand victorious on the Eastern side of Osgiliath, you might think better of it." His words were confident, but his face ashen. He put on his helm, mounted his horse, reached down, and grabbed Belecthor's arm. "Remember, Belecthor, today life is good. We shall meet again in Osgiliath." "In Osgiliath," said Belecthor. Faramir turned and rode towards his waiting men. Belecthor went down to the first level of the city to wait for Faramir's men. And there they came. In all the panoply and splendour of the Tower of Guard they came, yet no one expected them to return alive. Belecthor could hardly hold back the tears. He ran his hand through his thick beard and watched as the gate opened and Faramir rode out. He looked up and caught Aratan's eye. He wanted more than anything to rush over and plead with his son not to do this, but he knew to do so would mean the shame and public disgrace of his son. As he rode beside him, Aratan leaned down to his father and said, "Ondoher will return with me." Then he rode away. When the last man rode out of the city and the gate was shut, Belecthor rushed to the uppermost wall of the first level of the City to see the charge's outcome. He watched as Faramir's men rode forward at a gallop, and then he could only bow his head and put it in his hands as he saw the men fall and then the fell riders of Mordor tear the remainder of Faramir's men to shreds and they were gone.  
Belecthor wrenched off his helmet and threw it to the ground, his shoulder length black hair flowing freely. He turned away and pounded the wall of the city in sheer emotional anguish. He then saw his men watching him. He put on his helmet and said, "Line up against the wall. Watch for any survivors."  
To his astonishment the gate opened and a lone horse came riding in. The gate closed swiftly as it had opened. He then turned back to his own position to survey the Pelennor Fields and it was then that he saw it. It was almost beautiful in a horrendous, terrifying manner. Company upon company of Easterlings, Haradrim, and, Orcs, Mumakil, and Trolls all in rank upon rank as far as the eye could see. Belecthor heard a voice from the top of the city. It was the Steward. "Yes!" he thought, "The Lord Denethor will rally us in our hour of need!" But when he listened to the Steward, he heard the words, "Abandon your posts! Flee in fear of you lives!" He rushed along his lines, barking at his men that he would kill the first man to pull back from the sacred walls of the city of Gondor. Belecthor looked up once more and saw Mithrandir attacking the Steward of Gondor with his staff! He was relieved but incensed that anyone, let alone this wanderer should strike down the Steward, but now there were more pressing things to worry about. He saw the Grey Pilgrim lead back several companies of men who had retreated. The Orcs struck first, sending a rock hewn from the stones of Osgiliath breaking into the ranks of the company beside Belecthor's. Belecthor then drew his sword and screamed at the top of his lungs, "Soldiers of Gondor, remember Osgiliath! Fire!" and with that the finest archers of Ithilien unleashed a torrent of arrows into the orcish ranks. Mithrandir then ordered the trebuchets fired, sending many rocks into the files of Orcs. Captain Amlaith next to him then ordered a volley of arrows into the orc ranks. It was then that Belecthor suffered the cruellest blow of the war. Nothing could have prepared him for the horror that awaited him as the Orcs flung in not rocks or stones, but human heads. To his utter horror he recognized two of the heads as his own sons. Aratan's severed head landed on his shield; Ondoher's by his feet. He was speechless. He could not say a word. All of the days, hours, months, and years flooded into his mind once more. Tears welled in his eyes, but then anger and an overpowering desire for Orcish blood on his sword possessed him and he cried aloud to his men, "This what they will do, should they enter this city! Give them our answer to this bloodshed! Fire!"  
They rained down more arrows into the orcs of Morgul, but they would not stop advancing, and all of a sudden, the Riders of the Air swooped down upon the city and let loose a shrill wail. Belecthor felt a cold chill run through his veins instead of blood. His knees trembled and his throat wanted to scream, but he could emit no sound. He was about to collapse to the ground, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a soft voice: "Take courage, Captain of Gondor. Stand, lead your men, and fear no darkness."  
He turned and saw the Grey Pilgrim with a stern hard look in his eye. He felt the blood run new in his veins. He turned to his men, who were writhing and rolling on the ground. He grabbed one and pulled him to his feet. "Hold your line, men! Remember who you are! Together we can hold this city for the glory of Gondor!"  
Slowly, but surely the men of Emyn Arnen rallied. In five minutes they were on their feet and back to their posts. Belecthor looked out over the Fields of Pelennor and beheld siege towers made in Osgiliath advancing upon the White City. They rammed the walls of Minas Tirith and those inside it threw down the ramps.  
Like a cat, he rushed upon the ramp, with sword drawn with two valiant men behind him. He hacked down Orc upon Orc, determined never to let one of these foul monsters into his city, but the Orcs simply overwhelmed him. His two men pulled him off the ramp. "Hold your positions!" Belecthor cried. "Minas Tirith will never become Osgiliath! Show them the cold hardness of Gondorian swords!" He drew his dagger and thrust it into the skull of an Orc. His men were on the verge of being overwhelmed, but still they fought and would not yield.  
Belecthor looked to his right and saw Amlaith's company being cut down mercilessly and saw Amlaith himself fall dead in the city he loved. To his left, Mithrandir was drawing off all available strength to the gate. The 4th Company of Emyn Arnen was now surrounded.  
He now had three options to choose from. Should he hack his way through to the Great Gate? Should he pull back to the Second Level, or should he hold his ground, which would mean sure annihilation to his men and himself? He made a decision: Hack his way to the Great Gate and join Mithrandir. He called to Amlaith's 44 remaining men and hacked his way through the press to the gate.  
The Orcs of the siege towers were few, for now the enemy was concentrating all his strength for the Great Gate and were easily destroyed. Belecthor had at his command these: 100 swordsmen, 50 archers, and 50 spearmen and it were his company that was positioned directly in front of the Gate. He heard the fierce Uruks chanting "Grond! Grond!" and wandered what it could possibly mean.  
He got the meaning soon enough, for then, after three fierce strokes, Grond broke through the Gate and five massive trolls lumbered in. "Charge!" cried the Captain of Gondor and his swordsmen were among them with Mithrandir and his men, hacking and thrusting, but the trolls, driven by a madness of fear and rage were equally brutal and many of the 4th Company met their end here.  
Belecthor himself had personally slain one of the beasts of Sauron. He had been felled by one then grabbed a spear from his fallen men and thrust it into the troll's blackened heart, but even as the trolls were finally destroyed, Orcs, by the hundreds of thousands poured in en masse, overwhelming the 4th company.  
After an hour of this, Gandalf cried for the retreat. Belecthor ran over to the Istari and proposed a bold plan. "Mithrandir! Mithrandir! Lead the shattered remnants of the 1st, 2nd, 5th, and 6th companies to the 2nd level. I and my men shall cover your retreat."  
"No!" cried Gandalf. "We cannot lose you as well as Faramir and Boromir. There too few captains here, Belecthor, too few. You must pull back with us."  
Belecthor reluctantly agreed. "Pull back to the 2nd level! Pull back! The 1st level is breached! Pull back! Pull back!" It was a madness of chaos as each man became his own captain and fled madly back to the next level of the city. However, Belecthor decided to recant his earlier decision. He desperately tried to rally his men, but the men of Ithilien were rushing with all speed back to the second level, but then he espied a fallen banner of the White Tree. He lunged for it and grabbed it. "Sons of Gondor!" he cried, "You have let many things burn, but will you let this burn?" he cried and thrust the banner into the air. First one man, then a second man turned and stood side by their captain. Before Belecthor knew it, there were 300 men, including 150 of his old Ithilien Company standing with him.  
He then led a charge, hacking through the press until the shattered gate was in their possession once more. They were almost engulfed by Uruks of Mordor, but there they stood and there they held, blocking the Gate with their own bodies. Belecthor was fiercest in the fight. A red fire gleamed in his eyes, so it was said in after days and even when an Orc sword gashed his arm that only served to enrage him further. He pushed him against a wall and decapitated him always clutching the Banner of the Tree in one hand and his sword in the other, dealing out death with grisly efficiency and precision.  
However it was at a price, out of the 300 men at the gate, already, 1/3 had met their end there and the 200 that remained would soon be overwhelmed. Belecthor then heard a sound that warmed his heart ever after: horns. The horns of the Riddermark! The Riders of Rohan had come! 


	3. The Field of Gondor

CHAPTER 3  
THE FIELD OF GONDOR  
  
Folcwine had ridden for days upon days to Minas Tirith. He was exhausted and worn, as was Fleetfoot, his horse, but now a new emotion welled up within him as he looked upon the legendary White City: anger. Anger that this beautiful city was being put to the torch before his eyes, anger for the hundreds of women and children penned up in a death pen, anger that the proud though valiant men of Gondor were being mercilessly put to the sword.  
His hand tightened around the haft of his spear as Theoden King rode down the line rallying his troops for a charge. Folcwine needed no encouragement. If he could, he would have ridden alone into the entire host of Mordor and when the host of Rohan blew their horns he put it to his lips and blew as loud a blast as he could on it. Folcwine then heard the King scream "Death!" and he bellowed it at the top of his lungs and it was repeated down the line. Theoden King at once charged forward on Snowmane. His troops started behind him still crying, "Death!"  
Suddenly a volley of Orcish arrows laced the Rohirrim line. Several men fell, but Theoden King and his Riders of the Riddermark would not be gainsaid. They plowed into the lines of Orcs with a terrible wrath, cutting into the lines of Uruks, trampling with their horses, slashing with their swords, thrusting with their spears. Folcwine's anger turned to joy as the Orcs were pulling back from the Gate of the City and fled before the triumphant men of Rohan.  
  
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Belecthor couldn't have been happier with this outcome, if he had planned it himself. His exhausted and beleaguered men of the City now finally had some relief. He ordered his men and those who were valiant enough to stay in the First Circle forward to aid the Rohirrim and forward they went; yet when they rushed out they encountered not Orcs, but Horselords. They stood face-to-face with their saviours and cried, "Cuio i Rohirrim annan!"* and when the tide of horsemen had passed, the Gondorians rushed behind the Rohirrim to avoid being trampled.  
  
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Folcwine had been hacking, slaying, and chasing the Orcs back to the Anduin, when all of a sudden he saw a monstrous beast on the horizon, or more specifically 20 of them. Huge, lumbering, trampling things, with tusks twice as long as one of his spears, but still he remembered his dream, and Rian, Freawine and Deor, and the suffering folk of the White City and the cold fury welled up once more and when the King ordered the charge, he thundered after him once more and the cry of "Death!" rose up once more on the Fields of Pelennor, yet little did the men of Rohan know that it would be their own death as well as those of their foes. All order dissipated in the face of the fierce mumaks of Harad. Folcwine was fortunate enough to ride between the monsters, but sadly many of his fellow men did not and were lost under the great hooves of the beasts. He rode under one of them, hurled his spear at the knee of the monster, and then hacked its tendon with his throwing axe. He retrieved his spear just as the oliphaunt was stumbling. Several arrows of his countrymen finally brought it down. Yet, even as he emerged unharmed from under the beast. He saw dozens of Southrons scramble out from its corpse and attacked the Lord Eomer and his esquire, a beardless boy, scarce the age of 15. Eomer and his esquire were fighting all but surrounded. Folcwine and his best friend, Goldwine galloped straight for the Third Marshal and they broke upon the Haradrim like a firestorm on the plains. The two men, not only killed every single Southron single-handedly, but also had saved the King's Heir and his esquire. Yet even as the Marshal's life was saved, the other Marshals' lives, Theoden's and Grimbold's were lost. One to a fell beast the other to an orcish sword, yet Folcwine didn't find out until the end of the battle.  
  
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Belecthor and his company had followed the Riders right into the path of the mumakil of Harad. Fortunately he found a stray mount from a fallen rider and took it for his own. He rallied his men to him. If the Riders of Rohan had enough trouble on horseback, the men of Emyn Arnen and Minas Tirith were worse so on foot, but being on foot also gave Belecthor's men a certain advantage, namely: They could scamper under a mumakil and have a greater chance of bringing it down with their swords, then the Riders could with their panicked horses.  
The Captain of Gondor still had the now tattered banner he had grabbed in the City and even as Eowyn of Rohan dispatched the Fell King of Morgul, Belecthor encountered one of the several Orc captains riding a Warg. He watched him trying to rally the Orcs and Easterlings to his banner. He tucked the White Tree under his arm and grabbed a spear from a passing rider and hurled it at the Warg. It found the wolf's eye. It howled in one last yelp of pain and came crashing down. The Orc chief was unharmed however and with a wail of fury flung himself at the Captain of Gondor, flinging him from his horse and pinning him to the ground. The Orc raised his scimitar and growled fiercely.  
  
Folcwine was shocked when his spear was suddenly grabbed from his hand and saw a Gondorian with a flowing black cape ride by and hurl a spear into the face of a Warg. Folcwine saw the man go down and an Orc throw him from his horse.  
He drew his throwing axe, and with a keen yet swift aim hurled it at the Orc's head.  
  
"So," thought Belecthor as the Orc raised his sword with a hideous howl of triumph, "This is how it ends: At the end of an Orcish blade. Perhaps it is good that I join my sons in death." But then the fateful stroke never came. He looked up and saw the Orc fall to the ground with an axe embedded in its skull. Just then a rider rode up. "Good captain!" he said, "Pray avail you of my axe and spear." Belecthor stood up in a daze. He pulled the axe from the dead Orc's head and grabbed his spear from the Warg's head and tossed them to the rider. In a daze, he grabbed his sword and dagger and pulled himself back onto his mount and pulled up beside the young Rohirrim.  
"What is your name, young man?" asked Belecthor.  
"Folcwine of the Westfold," replied the young man.  
"I am in your debt Folcwine of the Westfold." Replied Belecthor.  
  
"I believe that were I in your situation and you in mine you would have done the same for me, sir. What is your name?"  
"Belecthor, Captain of the Company of Emyn Arnen, sir."  
"Ah, a Captain. Are you sure you should be consorting with me, a common soldier, sir?"  
"Well, soldier, let us commence to attack, shall we say, that company of Easterlings over yonder?"  
"Good!"  
"Soldiers of Emyn Arnen and the Westfold, forward!"  
They charged, but as they came over to the ridge the Easterlings were on, they saw a sight that amazed and horrified the Captain of Gondor and Man of Rohan ever after: not Easterlings but an army. Wraith-like they were, ghostly shadows of what they once were. Belecthor and Folcwine had to calm their panicked horses.  
"What is it?" said Folcwine.  
"I know not," Replied the Captain, "I have heard tales from my youth of the Dead of the Mountain of Dunharrow, but I never thought to see them here visible before my very eyes."  
"Are they for us, or against us?" "They seem to be cutting down our enemies with brutal precision, but- look over there! That mumak!" They watched as the ghoulish army spread over the beast and almost seemed to devour it. They then saw their leader. He was no ghoul or wraith, but a man, clothed in grey and green, as Belecthor had seen some Rangers of the North in his youth, yet his bearing was kingly, lordly, and he carried a sword of strange design, then he remembered sketches of Narsil, the Sword of Kings, he had seen in the Great Library and it dawned on him. "They are for us, Folcwine. They are fulfilling their oath to gain their rest." "Oath? Their rest?" "Back in the Second Age, these men swore an oath to Isildur to aid him in the fight against the enemy. They then rejected him when the time came to war, so the tales say and the King cursed them never to rest until they fulfilled their oath." "So there is something unique about this man." "He can be no other than Isildur's heir, Folcwine! Only the King of Gondor could bring these men back from the Accursed Mountain." "The King!" cried Folcwine. "Let us ride over to him and show him the power of the steel of the West!" "I do not think that this man needs any teaching about the power of steel, Man of Rohan, but you are right. We shall ride over to him and join him in the fight." "But, Captain, the Dead are moving straight towards us." Folcwine was right. They were like the wind over the Fields and when they came to them, they seemed to recognize their heraldry and moved over or around them. All they had to do now was stand and watch as the armies of Mordor fled, and fell, and died. The Dead seemed not to even use their swords; they seemed to pass through their enemies. Folcwine was particularly impressed when one of the King's elvish companions hauled himself onto a mumak and brought it down with three arrows. Belecthor looked rather nonplussed. "It's been done," He muttered. The battle ended soon afterwards, with the total destruction of Sauron's army and the victory of Gondor. Belecthor watched as the King dismissed the ghostly army. Amazed was he as he watched the spectral army vanish as speedily as they had come.  
He saw Mithrandir and his men finally emerge from the City to greet the King, his companions, and the Rohirrim. He rode over to the Istari. Mithrandir looked shocked to see him. "I never thought see you alive again, you foolish Captain. You are an arrogant stubborn fool, but you are a good and brave man, Belecthor, Captain of the 5th Company of Emyn Arnen." Indeed, to the other men of the City the shattered remnants of Belecthor's Company seemed as those that have come back from the Dead and emerged alive but not unscathed. Indeed, out of the 150 who rushed out with Belecthor, 75 lay dead on the field. 25 were injured and being carried back to the city.  
Belecthor looked across the Field of Pelennor and saw the ruined City of Osgiliath and the banner of Minas Morgul flying high in the breeze and a passion welled up within him. This was the ancient capital of his Kingdom and to see the banner of a defeated army over it broke his heart. He rode over to the King with Folcwine at his side.  
"Your majesty, my name is Belecthor, Captain of the 5th Company of Emyn Arnen. I wish to lead a contingent of men to retake Osgiliath."  
"How large a contingent?" came the voice of Eomer of Rohan.  
"About 2,000 men, m'lord."  
"Gandalf," said the King, "Can we spare 2,000?"  
"I believe we can," replied the Maia . "You have your 2,000 men," said Eomer.  
"You do," said the King, "But Belecthor, do not force anyone to ride who does wish to. Today has been a long day, as you well know."  
"My Lord," said Belecthor bowing. "Folcwine, are you riding with me?"  
"Indeed," said Folcwine, "I am far from weary today. I just need to find Goldwine."  
He rode across scouring the battlefield for his friend. He found his crushed body near the corpse of a mumak. The appearance of his friend was so hideous that he scarce bring himself to look upon it. "At least he experienced little pain," he thought.  
He then heard a voice: "It never gets any easier. We try to tell ourselves that this is war, that this is to be expected, but when you lose your sons, friends, your brothers in arms... I found this," he said. Folcwine turned and saw Belecthor holding an ornate helmet. "Folcwine, this belonged to Faramir. He was a dear, dear friend of mine. He was also a very valiant man. I have lost more in the past two days, than I have in all 25 years of my military service, however, Goldwine's death, Faramir's death was not in vain. Minas Tirith is saved, because of you and your heroic riders of the Riddermark. Take comfort in that. Will you ride with me to retake Osgiliath and avenge his death upon the swarthy men and Orcs who now occupy it? "Yes," Folcwine answered thickly, "I shall." Belecthor then rode into the White City and implored all valiant, unhurt men, who would to ride to Osgiliath and retake the ancient capital of Gondor to do so. In all, 1,000 Gondorians (including Belecthor's 50 men of Emyn Arnen) and 500 Rohirrim were available for the task. The other captains had ceded command of this expedition to him. The King's Elvish and Dwarvish companions had great desire to retake Osgiliath and the King consented. He learned their names as Legolas and Gimli and they received several strange glances from the men of Gondor and Rohan at seeing an Elf and a Dwarf together in the City. They had up to this point been helping Hurin, Warden of the Keys, clean up the scored and trampled field, but now they were ready for battle once more. Belecthor gave command of the Rohirrim to Folcwine, who was astonished beyond measure at assuming such a responsibility and when other more experienced Rohirrim soldiers protested, Belecthor said, "He has proven his mettle on the battlefield and that is all the evidence I need of his abilities. I shall say no more." He split the Gondorians into two large companies. He would have direct control over the first and seeing no other captain of Rohan or Gondor in sight, gave command of 500 Gondorians to Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood. "Have you led men in combat before?" asked Belecthor. "I have been conducting the defence of my land since before you were in your mother's womb," replied the Elf. Belecthor smiled. "Very well then," he said, "Do we have any complaints of superiority in rank?" No one protested. The plan was simple: Belecthor would lead his 500 in a direct drive for the city with Folcwine and Legolas serving as flankers. His scouts had reported that there were a battalion of 500 Easterlings and about 200 Orcs and 900 Southrons remained in Osgiliath with one Nazgul. Folcwine would hit them from the left and Legolas on the right. Once within the city they would converge on the bridge and drive them from the eastern shore. Belecthor rode in front of the line of men, ready for battle once more. He held in one hand the banner of the White Tree and in the other his faithful sword, Uruksbane. Faramir's helm he had strapped to his saddle. "Men of the West," he cried aloud, "But two days ago, Faramir, Captain of the White Tower was slain with 200 of our finest knights! Their blood still soaks on this field and their heads have fallen into the Walls of our Sacred City and will this insult go unavenged? Shall Rohan and Gondor stand idly by, while the banner of the Foul Moon flies flapping in the breeze?"  
"Nay!" came the cry from the troops. Belecthor then sheathed his sword and grabbed Faramir's helm and held it aloft for all the men to see. "Then, remember Faramir, men! Remember Faramir and reclaim this city, not merely for Gondor alone, but for the honour of the Westfold and Fenmarch! Forward!" He thrust Faramir's helm into his saddle and drew his sword and thundered forward. Folcwine's and Legolas' men followed swiftly behind him.  
  
It was nighttime. The Easterlings and Southrons were conducting their now routine night watches and then all of a sudden, they heard loud cries and shouts and hooves and many feet thundering in their direction and before they could even get any sense of what was happening, many met their ends at the point of a Rohirrim spear or a Gondorian sword or an Elf arrow or a Dwarf axe.  
It was a short and swift fight. Belecthor's men being the attackers and knowing the city as well as they did swiftly overwhelmed the men of Rhun and Harad, when all of a sudden they heard a horrible shrieking cry and the Captain of Gondor saw a Nazgul flying overhead, but it was a subdued cry, for its Lord was destroyed and its comrades scattered. It rushed for Belecthor, but Belecthor side swept it and plunged the tip of the flagpole into the beast's chest. The Nazgul fell and would have been overborne, had it not been for a shield wall of Easterlings that formed around him as Belecthor moved in for the kill. As Belecthor moved on, he noticed several of his men rush up behind him and hack and swipe at the beast's carcass, for this had taken the lives of their friends, brothers, fathers, and other relatives. Folcwine and Legolas rode to Belecthor and reported that the enemy was flying for the river and safety. "Folcwine, seal off the fords! Legolas, advance your men across the bridges the enemy has fashioned and cut them off from the eastern side. My men and I shall make a direct push for the main bridge! Any man who surrenders, take prisoner, slay any and every Orc! Move out!" The two rode off, Legolas to the right and Folcwine to the left.  
  
The enemy was bewildered, tired, and trapped. Desperately looking for an escape they found none and either surrendered or died where they stood. In all, Belecthor, son of Vorondil and Captain of Gondor, with his men killed 200 Orcs, 450 Easterlings and 700 Southrons, captured 200 Southrons and 25 Easterlings, and captured 8 banners of Morgul, Rhun, and Harad. Belecthor had lost only 50 men killed and 25 wounded. Only 25 Easterlings and the Nazgul escaped the city alive and that through hard fighting. Belecthor rushed to the topmost, easternmost wall on the eastern side of Osgiliath, cut down the banner of Minas Morgul, and thrust the banner of the White Tree, stained with the blood of the Nazgul beast into the wall and cried, "The banner of Gondor is stained with the blood of Mordor! Sons of Gondor, men of Rohan, Elf, and Dwarf, the City of Osgiliath, once and through all the ages has been reclaimed for Gondor!" and thunderous cheers and clanking of sword and spear upon shield rose up on high throughout the Citadel of Stars.  
  
*Means: "Long live Rohirrim!" in Gondorian  
  
A/N: Chapter 4 coming later. Please read and review. 


	4. The Black Gate of Mordor

CHAPTER 4  
THE BLACK GATE OF MORDOR  
  
Belecthor awoke the next day in Osgiliath. After he had reclaimed the city he had staggered down the stairs and collapsed on the ground, exhausted from the labours of the past two days. He walked to where his men were having breakfast. "May I join you?" he asked.  
"Ah, yes, of course, Captain," said Vorongil, a young man with too high an opinion of himself, "Have some bread."  
"Thank you," said Belecthor. They ate in silence for they remembered the hell they had passed through together and their lost comrades and they now felt a unique bond that words could never express. "I must ride back to Minas Tirith today and report to the King," said the Captain.  
"And then..." said Vorongil.  
"Then we wait for orders, Vorongil. You have been with me long enough to know that I cannot predict what will happen one day to the next. Anyway, shore up the defences on the East side and make sure the Rohirrim have adequate rations. They saved the White Tower yesterday. The least we can do is provide them food."  
They sat in silence, staring at him. "Well, why are you just sitting here? Go!"  
"Right away, sir!" said Vorongil, "Come on, men! You heard the Captain! Move out!"  
The men got to their feet to carry out their orders and Belecthor walked to where the Easterling and Southron prisoners were stationed. There he met Folcwine. "Look at them," said Folcwine, "Adequately fed, talking among themselves, when yesterday their kind were cutting down our comrades! Why didn't you just kill them, Belecthor?"  
"Because they surrendered," said Belecthor "And if we kill them or abuse them in any manner we show ourselves to be no better than they."  
"They killed your sons!"  
"Sauron killed my sons, Folcwine. I do not know why these men are here, but all I need to know is that they surrendered and I shall treat them with the dignity which Gondor affords its prisoners of war."  
Folcwine stared at his new friend for a long moment, then nodded. "I suppose you're right. Besides, killing them would not bring Goldwine, Grimbold, or Theoden King back. It would mend nothing. So, are you riding to Minas Tirith today?"  
"Yes," Belecthor replied, "I want to know what the King has planned, but first I want to know more about you who was your father?"  
"Well, my father was Fastred, son of Hildeson and he left me a small piece of land in South Westfold. Belecthor, you should see it: I own 2 horses and Freawine and Deor love to get them upset and Rian would scold them for getting too much mud on their shirts."  
"Rian?"  
"My wife, we've been married for 7 years now, but on my land, Belecthor, my land extends 5 acres, north, south, east, and west."  
"I thought you said it was small."  
"Well it is, when you consider the vast lands of Rohan, we have not clogged ours with cities as you Gondorians are so fond of doing."  
"One might call our cities a mark of civilization," replied the Captain.  
"Or choking the land of all living things."  
"How do we choke our land?"  
"You suffocate it with stone and brick and your people earn more money than the rest of us and rob poor farmers like myself. I know you were born into a family of wealth and means. You were given your position as Captain on a silver platter."  
Belecthor quickly stood to his feet. "You know nothing of my life! My father was from the hill country of Ithilien and we were so poor at times we didn't even know if we would even have a decent meal from one night to the next!"  
Folcwine appeared stunned. "I...I...I beg your pardon, Captain. I had no idea in the slightest."  
Belecthor nodded his forgiveness and gestured towards the Southron prisoners once more. "What do you see, Folcwine when you look at these men?"  
"Murderers, looters, thieves," said Folcwine.  
"Hmm...perhaps, you should rethink that."  
Belecthor then mounted his horse, which he had renamed "Bregolas" and bade farewell to Folcwine for a short time. He rode through the streets of East Osgiliath, galloped across the bridge, between the streets of the Western side, then sped across the now scored and trampled fields of Pelennor. He galloped through the ruined gate of Minas Tirith, through the seven levels, entered the courtyard of the Kings after leaving Bregolas at the entrance, then entered the chamber, where he saw the King, the Lord Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, and Mithrandir.  
"Belecthor!" said the King, "I hear Osgiliath has been retaken. You are to be commended, Captain."  
"Thank you, Lord," said Belecthor, taking a goblet of water, "But before I hear your plan, I wish to raise one small item: Will Master Gimli please get out of the Stewards' chair? It's a matter of protocol. The Lord Denethor will be incredibly offended."  
"Protocol will not matter in these dread days and as for the Lord Denethor, you need no longer worry about him. He is dead."  
Belecthor spat out his water in shock and horror. "How?" he croaked.  
"He burned himself to death on his own Pyre," said the King.  
"Give me a moment to collect myself," he said, "Thank the gods that a King has returned! I don't know what would happen otherwise. Now, I suppose the Lord Denethor would wish us to not mourn his death. He would want to know what happens from here on," he said, "My men are stationed in Osgiliath. Should we pull back to Minas Tirith, or should we retake Ithilien?"  
"We have already decided what to do," said Eomer. "We shall attack the Black Gate of Mordor."  
Belecthor was so stunned he dropped his goblet. "Attack the Black Gate? That is madness! How could you have stooped to such folly?"  
The King looked at Mithrandir. "Shall we explain to him?"  
"Yes, I think now is the time," said the Maia.  
Belecthor then was told everything, from the forging of the Great Rings of Power, to the Hobbits Smeagol and Deagol, to this new peril that the Halflings Frodo and Samwise were carrying into Mordor.  
"Under no circumstances, must this trickle back to your men, Belecthor," said Eomer, "The only method to victory now is secrecy and deception."  
"Which is why we are marching to the Black Gate, to distract Sauron," said Belecthor. "Exactly," said the King. "For if Sauron cannot see Frodo, he may yet have a chance of destroying the One, yet if we stay hidden then Sauron's eye is free to roam at will and Frodo will be overcome by the multitude of Orcs in Gorgoroth." "But how am I to explain this to my men," asked the Captain. "Tell them there is one more yet manly deed within their reach if they will seize it," said Legolas. "How many men do you need?" "Just 500," said Gimli, "Just enough to draw the eye of the Enemy to us." "500? There is no hope of victory with such a paltry number." "We do not hope for victory, Belecthor," said Eomer, "Just enough time for-" "Yes for Frodo to destroy the One! But I cannot put my men into needless peril!" "Your men will be placed into peril regardless," said Mithrandir, "For if Frodo fails to destroy it, your men will be wiped out, regardless of whether we march to the gate."  
"Then it is better for us to go down fighting is what you're saying."  
"Indeed," said the King, "Ride out to Osgiliath and see if 250 are ready for the ride, we shall stay here and organize 250 men of the City, when Eomer rides into the city, that will be your signal to join us." Belecthor nodded, bowed, and rode back to Osgiliath with a heavy heart. He ordered the men near the Citadel of Stars and proclaimed: "Soldiers of the West, you have performed well. Osgiliath is retaken, but there are deeds more yet to do. The King has need of 250 men from this garrison to ride to the Morannon as soon as possible. There is hardly any chance for our survival. So, men, I do issue any orders. Any man who wishes to stay may stay, but any who wish to ride with us, draw your swords." Folcwine felt a renewed sense of duty swell up within him once more and when the call to arms came, he was the first man to draw his sword. Belecthor then saw 50, 100, 150, 200, then 250, but even though the tally of men was filled more swords were drawn until the entire garrison of 1,500 had drawn their blades. Belecthor was visibly moved and said, "Thank you, soldiers of Gondor and Rohan. Rohan will not be ashamed. Gondor is proud! Make sure you are ready by the next day."  
"Ha!" came a voice from within the Citadel. "Ha! Do you really believe you can defeat Sauron? He has armies beyond your imagination!" Belecthor looked for the source and remembered his Southron prisoners and said, "It matters not whether we obtain victory or not, it only matters that we have done what we could." It was a pathetic speech he knew, but he had to placate the Southron long enough to keep his men's spirits up. "Anyhow, at least 1,000 of you must remain in Osgiliath." He then handpicked 250 men for the assault.  
The Southron grunted and sat back down. Belecthor saw the men's enthusiasm dampen. Many re-sheathed their swords. Belecthor now knew it was the time for action. "No there is hardly any chance of victory, but if I can but fight and die far from the living lands in the hope that my wife and children may live peaceful, happy lives I am willing to take that chance." Just then Eomer came galloping into the city.  
"The time for talk is over! To horse, men!" He cried, leaping on Bregolas and galloping out of the city. Folcwine and 249 other riders of Gondor and Rohan leapt on any spare horse available and sped out of the city and joined up with the King and his riders.  
  
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It was a two-day ride to the Black Gate of Mordor and yet it went by rather uneventfully and incredibly swift. Belecthor, Folcwine, and the men of Emyn Arnen and the Westfold were stationed side by side in the front line just a mile or so from the gate. They dismounted and sent their horses to the rear.  
The King, Mithrandir, Legolas, Gimli, two Halflings, and the Lord Eomer rode to the front of the Black Gate and challenged Sauron. Belecthor and Folcwine could discern very little from their position. They saw a foul shape on horseback confront the Captains, then it cast down several items, which seemed to deeply trouble them, then he appeared to draw sword on the captains at which point the King struck him down.  
They saw the Lords ride back to the front line as Orcs and Easterlings by the thousands came streaming forth out of the gate. The two men were astonished by the sheer size and magnitude, yet Folcwine drew his sword and stood firm whereas Belecthor put a tentative hand to Uruksbane's hilt. Vorongil, the arrogant young soldier from the hills of Ithilien doubled over and vomited at the sight. As he steadied himself Belecthor put a comforting hand at his back. He turned to Folcwine and said, "What makes you so confident, soldier?" Folcwine turned and stared at him. "I made a promise, Belecthor, that one day I would ride back to my wife's door and I have never broken my word, sir. I have not come so far only to let these Orcs and Easterlings cut me down now." Belecthor was touched, but still plainly terrified. He then heard the King arrive back to his troops and shouted words that would remain with Belecthor and Folcwine as long as they lived:  
  
Stand your ground! Stand your ground! Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers! I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me! A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day! An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the Age of Men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand! Men of the West!  
  
Belecthor could do nothing else but draw his sword and scream "Emyn Arnen!" at the top of his lungs. His men then repeated the cry and cries of "Westfold!" "Pinnath Gelin!" "Wold!" "Fenmarch!" "Lossarnach!" "Edoras!" and "Minas Tirith!" arose through the host and each man took new courage as they stood side by side with their comrades and as they drew their swords the sun gleamed through the gathering darkness and the rays came down upon their swords and their armour and they appeared to the host of Mordor to shine with the very light of Valinor and the hosts of Mordor, though they were many, paled back in fear. They then saw the King seemed lured as it were by the Dark Tower and the cries ceased. He seemed to be wrestling with his own inner demons and then barely audibly he said, "For Frodo!" and rushed forward, then the Halflings rushed after him, then Mithrandir, then the entire host charged forward at the Army of Mordor. Belecthor felt a rush of excitement that he could never explain afterwards. He felt as immortal as any Elf ever born and he laughed at the hosts of Mordor and flung himself onto an Orcish captain, wrestled it, and slit its throat.  
They enjoyed early success, with their King in command Belecthor and his men clove into the battalions of Orcs and Folcwine and the Westfold men drove against the men of Rhun. It was a flurry of swords and axes, spears and bows.  
Folcwine wrestled a young Easterling to the ground and was about to run him through when looked into the man's eyes and realized that he could be no more than a boy of 17 or 18 and he remembered the words of Belecthor, "Perhaps you should rethink that." He knew he could not kill this boy, so vulnerable and when he looked once again into his eyes and saw in them that they shared a common humanity. He dragged a body of an Orcish corpse upon him and instructed him to stay still until the battle was finished. "I give you the surety of Folcwine, son of Guthlaf of the Westfold of the Riddermark that you shall not be harmed."  
Arrows flew freely. Men, Orcs, Trolls, Elf, Maia, Dwarf, and Halflings all mired in a sea, which they could not escape. Belecthor then looked to his left and saw Folcwine receive a spear wound in the back of the leg, then an Orc scimitar was flung down and cut a deep flesh wound in his back, then he received a knife wound in the foot. He went down. Belecthor then felt anger arise in him and he remembered his sons and their severed heads, his lieutenant Cirion, the hundreds of dead Rohirrim, Faramir, and the hundreds of his own company who had been massacred, and he knew he had seen enough death to last him several lifetimes. He turned to Vorongil and said, "Take command of the men!" and rushed to where Folcwine lay.  
  
Folcwine truly believed that this was now the end. Blood oozed from his three wounds and now an Orc scimitar was poised to strike him, but then just as he lost all hope he heard a fierce battle yell and the clash of steel directly above him. He looked up and saw Belecthor, Captain of Emyn Arnen fighting directly above him. He slew the Orc and looked down at Folcwine. "What are you doing?" gasped the wounded man. "Keeping your promise for you!" he said and there he held. Few Orcs dared come near Belecthor for they knew that they would have to face the edge of Uruksbane and they feared that more than all the thralls of Sauron. Those few that dared to come near fell dead to the ground. Belecthor then picked up Folcwine and rushed back to his men and gently placed him down. "Hold on, man! You are not going to die now! You've survived too much! Do you hear me, Aratan?" Folcwine looked up. "Aratan?" he gasped. Belecthor realized what he had said and broke down and wept while the fight raged around him. He took off his helm and let it fall to the ground.  
  
Folcwine frantically gestured as best he could for him to look up. Belecthor did look up, but too late, for an Orc scimitar cut into his head. Belecthor fell to the ground on top of Folcwine and blood ran freely.  
  
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Vorongil, soldier of Emyn Arnen had often been called arrogant, but he considered this "arrogance" military discipline and the state of being precise, and now that his captain had gone, he was in command, rallying the men, when they were ready to retreat. He glanced to where the Captain was, but saw now a sea of Orcs surrounding the position. Vorongil then ordered his men to where the Captain was. They desperately hacked their way through the press of humanity and Orcs and found their captain lying bleeding and injured upon a wounded soldier of Rohan. "He's alive," gasped the wounded Rohirrim. "He's still breathing." Vorongil pushed the Captain over and he saw that he was indeed breathing. "Captain!"  
  
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Belecthor woke up to a man shaking him, looked up, and saw Vorongil, staring down at him. He staggered to his feet and leaned on Vorongil until he regained his equilibrium. He tore a piece from his sable cape and wrapped it around his head. He then threw himself back into the fray, cutting down the enemy, rallying his men to hold their positions, but then the company of Pinnath Gelin on his right gave way and began to run for their lives. He desperately tried to rally them, but sadly many of them were young and had seen many of their comrades die and were beyond rallying. He charged to their position and stood and fought there himself, then the men of Pinnath Gelin saw this man, wounded, yet standing and fighting on ground, which they should have been occupied. They then rallied and courage stronger than steel rose in their hearts and they charged forward and stood with Belecthor and held their ground.  
  
Rian, daughter of Fengel, wife of Folcwine, was desperately anxious. It had been days; weeks even, since her husband had rode away with the other riders. Fear welled up in her heart, yet hope also. She remembered that he had not emerged unscathed from the Hornburg and endured a long and perilous ride back to their farm only to ride away now and to break his word to her would be unconscionable, yet she could wait no longer, she grabbed her two sons, wrapped some bread in a woollen towel, and filled some water bottles. She then rushed to Gram, their mare and saddled her up. She put the bread and water in saddlebags, placed the children in the saddle, and got up onto the horse. "Where are we going, mama?" asked Deor. "Minas Tirith," said Rian "Why there?" asked Freawine. "To see father." "Is he dead?" "No, son, he made a promise to us, remember? Now hold on," she said and spurred Gram forward. As she rode, she remembered what they had said the day they plighted their troth on the grounds of the ramshackle farm. "'Till death comes betwixt us," she had said. "Is he dead?" she thought, "No, I would know," she thought in reply, "But how do I know he's in Minas Tirith?" "I don't, but I may just meet him there. I cannot stay at home and do nothing." She looked back at the farm and saw it rapidly recede into the distance, just as Folcwine had done a short week before.  
  
But Folcwine was now far from any kind of help. Belecthor was desperately trying to hold the ramshackle line of Pinnath Gelin together with limited success. Folcwine then saw a tall form with a flowing black cape, looking around. He knelt to the ground and Folcwine recognized the King! "What is your name, soldier?" "Folcwine, son of Guthlaf, soldier of the Westfold, sire." "May the gods bless you for your courage, Folcwine. I am-" "Sire! Behind you!" The King wheeled around just in time to parry the huge blade of a troll. Folcwine desperately desired to help the King, but he was barely able to move, let alone reach for a weapon. The King fell to the ground and the troll stepped upon the King, not killing him. The King desperately grabbed his knife and rammed it into the troll's foot. He looked around him and saw the men of Pinnath Gelin finally break and run for their lives and no words or actions of Belecthor would rally them. Belecthor was caught in the press of men and only stopped on Folcwine's left, standing with his old company of Emyn Arnen, now reduced to a mere 35 men and could only stand there and fight desperately for their lives. They saw the Eagles arrive, but it was only a mockery of hope to them, for they knew their lives were forfeit.  
But then something happened: the lines of Mordor, Orc, Easterling, Southron, troll began to waver, break, and finally run for their lives.  
Belecthor looked around in shock. He knelt beside Folcwine and helped him to his feet. Folcwine put one arm around Belecthor's shoulder while relying on his other leg to hold him up. Together they watched the crumbling lines of Mordor, then they looked up and saw a sight that remained permanently engraved on their memories: The Barad-dur, the very symbol of evil and vile slavery came crumbling down. Nobody could speak, yet there was not a dry eye on the field. Hardened veterans from as far back as Osgiliath and the Fords of Isen fell to their knees and wept as if they were small children.  
Folcwine was overwhelmed with emotion and the pain of his wounds. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.  
Belecthor was also extremely overwhelmed and his head still throbbed from the pain of his wound, yet he stood there for several minutes just absorbing it. He gently lowered Folcwine to the ground and entrusted him to the care of Elfhelm, the commander of the Westfold men. Vorongil rushed over to him and they shared a mutual embrace. They both watched as Mordor caved in on itself never to rise again.  
His majesty then ordered the men to pursue the surviving Orcs and accept the surrender of those Men who would and cut down those who did not. Belecthor and his men were assigned to burial duty. As Belecthor shoved off the carcass of a dead Uruk he saw a frightened young man gasping for air, begging for his life. He pled the surety of one Folcwine of the Westfold. Belecthor smiled broadly, helped up the young Easterling and entrusted him to Vorongil.  
After the burial of the dead men, and the burning of the Orcs and trolls and other foul things, the King ordered his men to await the arrival of Mithrandir, whom they had seen depart with several of the Eagles. When the Eagles returned, they were carrying Mithrandir and two small people who appeared to be incredibly tortured, scarred, and burned. "Who are they?" he asked.  
Mithrandir replied, "Belecthor, son of Vorondil, Captain of the 4th Company of Emyn Arnen, I introduce you to Frodo, son of Drogo and Samwise, son of Hamfast, Ringbearers." 


	5. Chapter 5: An Ending or a Beginning

A/N: Thanks for the kind review. Yes, Belecthor had 75 men at the Black Gate and it was then reduced to 35 men.

Folcwine awoke in a strange room. He looked around and saw no one in the room until a woman appeared at the doorway. "You're awake!" screamed the woman as she rushed to over to him. "Rian!" he gasped, finally recognizing his wife. "How did you get here? Where are-"

Just then Freawine and Deor ran into the room screaming and flailing their arms about. They leapt onto his bed and embraced him tightly. They pulled on his long hair as they had often enjoyed doing back at the farm. Rian spoke once more:

"My husband, I grew worried. From the first day since you rode forth I had looked for your return, but after days and days of waiting I could wait no longer, I grabbed the boys and made for Minas Tirith.

It took me over a week to arrive with the boys constantly begging for a rest. When I arrived at the City I begged them to let me in yet they refused me constantly until a man approached me and asked me who I was. I said: 'I am Rian wife of Folcwine son of Guthlaf.' At the mention of your name he brightened and said 'I know your husband. He aided in the rescue of our city and saved my life on the field of Gondor. He is sorely hurt however. He lies still in the Houses of Healing. Come. I shall vouch for you.'"

"Belecthor aided you?" asked Folcwine

"Yes, husband," replied his wife, "He told me he had been sitting constantly by your bedside in desperation pleading for you to wake up. You have been asleep for well nigh two months, husband. What do you remember?"

"I remember being cut down, then Belecthor rushed over to me, then he fell over, then I was helped up. Rian, the Dark Tower is no more! We no longer have to live in its shadow! I saw it fall! It is no more!"

"Yes it is no more," came a new voice.

"Lord Eomer," gasped Rian, "Why are you here?"

"Is that the kind of question you always ask your rulers?" Eomer asked chuckling.

"No, lord, it's just that I never guessed that you of all people would care about one soldier from the Westfold."

"I would agree, save that Folcwine is no ordinary soldier. He is a hero, good wife. He saved the life of my esquire and myself on the field of Gondor, he saved the life of Belecthor son of Vorondil Captain of Gondor, led one of the battalions in the retaking of Osgiliath, alerted the King Elessar to peril in front of the Black Gate, and has fought valiantly throughout. Therefore, Folcwine, son of Guthlaf, soldier of the Westfold, I bequeath to thee the spear of Grimbold, son of Frealaf commander of the Western Eored. I do also make thee Third Marshal of the Riddermark. Are you able to rise?"

"Lord, I am but wearing a simple gown," Folcwine replied.

"Are you able to rise?" Eomer repeated.

"Yes, lord," said Folcwine.

"Then rise and receive your spear, Third Marshal."

Folcwine was still trying to absorb the news that he would be replacing Grimbold as commander, but when Rian ushered the boys off of the bed and she stepped aside Folcwine with an effort he got out of bed, stood to his full 5'11" inches, and received the spear from his King.

"Now, Marshal, you should be ready: the coronation of the King of Gondor is but three days hence and you are to be in the front of your men."

"Three days?" gasped Folcwine.

"Yes, three days," said Eomer and he went over the positions Folcwine and his men would be stationed in, but Folcwine was not listening, for his eyes strayed to the doorway of his room, where a man stood with his arm propped on the doorpost. He smiled a weary smile and Folcwine smiled back at Belecthor son of Vorondil, Captain of Gondor.

3 days later...

Belecthor was stationed next to Folcwine's eored. He was positioned towards the rear and despite his height was not able to view much and he could barely see the King. His own family and Folcwine's family were positioned behind the 1st Company of the Men of Minas Tirith.

He was elated when Folcwine awoke. He had spent the past three days besides organizing his company for the grand ceremony talking to Folcwine and introducing their families to each other. Fortunately Rian and Hathaldia had connected amazingly well, better than both men could have hoped. Their children had also befriended each other. Belecthor's one remaining son, Calimehtar had treated Freawine and Deor as his own brothers and even Belecthor's teenaged daughters, Nienna and Luthien swiftly embraced the young Rohirrim boys as one of their own, but it was the two deceased sons who concerned him now. How he missed Aratan and Ondoher! Almost every day, he expected them to come striding into the room he was he in and he would know that his sons' heads falling near him had all been a hideous dream.

He also thought of his father, old Vorondil, who had been laid in his barrow five years before. Vorondil always told him tales of the Old Kings and all he could remember at the ceremony were his father's words. Vorondil had said that after Elendil had crowned his two sons, Isildur and Anarion, the first thing he said after crowning them was: "Now come the days of the Kings and may they be blessed." Then the men stood together and each delivered an address to the enthusiastic crowd.

Belecthor watched the ceremony unfold and it took place as his father had said with Mithrandir placing the crown on the King's head and delivering the blessing, Belecthor then heard the King deliver an address, which Belecthor thought little of. He was more concerned with the King's words after the address. Belecthor swore afterwards that he sounded just like Belecthor's own father:

"_Et Earello Endorenna utulien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta!"_

Belecthor was moved to tears, despite his best efforts to hold them back in front of his men. He looked behind them and saw that his men were weeping profusely. The King then walked down the road with his guard and nodded at Belecthor and saluted Folcwine.

Folcwine was happy for Belecthor, though not nearly as moved for in his country Kings had been crowned since the days of his forefathers, however he did feel a certain sense of awe at the man who lead them to victory.

He saw the King stride down the walkway and after greeting his elvish friend each man beheld the most beautiful woman either men had ever seen. They stood in awe at the lady who could only be the Queen of Men and laughed out loud when the King kissed her.

The King now approached the Halflings and they bowed. "Good," Belecthor, "They know how to treat the King of Men with due respect." But he was shocked when the King proclaimed, "My friends, you bow to no one." And he bowed low to the little people.

Belecthor, seeing the King himself bowing low to the Halflings could not help but bow low himself. He looked to the side and saw his friend Folcwine kneel, but he could the hardness of the man's jaw and knew that it was due to great physical effort on his part that he was even able to bow. Belecthor was even more moved by this display of strength on the part of the young Rohirrim than he was even with his valour in battle. He was now weeping again, yet it was not an uncommon sight on that plaza for the occasion was such that tears and cheers flowed like water and grief was mingled with joyfulness.

Two months passed and it was the gladdest of both men's lives. Their families lived together in the same house for that time and Folcwine was restored to full health and strength save for a severe limp, which he would carry for the rest of his life, yet the sad day finally came for them to say farewell for Eomer King and the Riders of Rohan and a great party of the folk of Gondor were leaving for Edoras. Belecthor was not able to travel with the great however for he had received orders from the King Elessar to supervise the rebuilding of Osgiliath. Folcwine and Rian were devastated when they heard the news. They had looked forward to Belecthor and Hathaldia's company along the way. Rian, Hathaldia, and the children said their farewells, Rian, Freawine, and Deor said farewell to Belecthor and rode out of the city to join the other riders.

The two men walked to the gate of Gondor where Fleetfoot awaited them. As Folcwine was about to mount the horse, Belecthor caught him by the arm. "This is the gate you saved," he rasped.

Folcwine smiled. "This is also the gate you held," he replied.

"If you had not come, Folcwine with your people, my strength would have been in vain. Tell me, Folcwine: Does it ever end?"

Folcwine appeared puzzled. "How so? Our friendship?"

"No," Belecthor answered, "This time, this war, are you not going to miss it?"

"I understand what you mean: It was an awful time, but courage and sacrifice shone through as never before in the history of Middle Earth. Yes, I shall miss it."

"As will I. So, will you ever ride here again with your family? You, Rian, and the lads would be most welcome."

"I think so, if you will come to the Westfold, good Captain."

"It is done, then. Farewell, friend."

Folcwine clasped Belecthor's arm, but Belecthor released it and wrapped his arms around the Rohirrim in a tearful embrace. They had endured more together in 2 months than most men would ever have to endure in a lifetime. The two men released each other and Folcwine rode out of the city, to his family and now to Edoras.

5 months after Folcwine had left his tiny Westfold farm for peril and battle on the field of Gondor, he found himself slowly trotting Fleetfoot with faithful Rian by his side down the path to that same Westfold farm. It was the same old faithful farmhouse, yet he was not the same man. He had lost his best friend, gained a new friend, had seen more death and destruction than even the slaughter at the Hornburg would have allowed him to have believed, had endured three painful wounds, and had come away with a promotion. It seemed almost obscene to be riding back to his farm in peace when so many other men who should have also been riding back to their homes had lost their lives on fields far from their homes, yet he had gained something from this conflict. He knew in his heart of hearts that he done the right thing in riding to the aid of Gondor. He no longer thought of them as a nation of braggarts. He saw them for they were as sharing a common humanity that transcended petty rivalries and personality conflicts. "No," he thought, "I am not the same Folcwine who rode away months before." Then he heard Rian's voice calling him to go to the market and inquire as to their livestock she had left at the market. "Yet perhaps in some ways I am the same Folcwine," he thought as he removed the garb of 3rd Marshall of the Riddermark and rode down to the marketplace.

Belecthor was exasperated. He had been tasked with supervising the reconstruction of Osgiliath, but the Dome of the Citadel of the Star has caved in. Belecthor was bellowing and shouting at the top of his lungs, when he heard a voice he had never expected to hear this side of the world again:

"Did I not say, Belecthor: 'We shall meet again in Osgiliath.'"

Belecthor was as shocked as though the Dome itself had collapsed over his head and he was recovering from the blow. He slowly turned around and saw the smiling face of his old friend, Faramir, now clad in the shining armour of a prince and with one of the most beautiful of women at his side.

"Fara- you- I saw-"he sputtered.

"Do you not remember the old rhyme: 'The hands of the King are the hands of a healer.'"

"The King healed you?"

"Truly."

Belecthor threw his arms around the man. "He truly is the renewer. Faramir, forgive me for my bitter words before you rode away."

"Ah, Belecthor, it is I who should ask forgiveness from you. I am truly sorry about Aratan."

"He died defending the White Tower and fighting for his Lord and Steward. I could ask for no better death."

Faramir paused and the two men looked around silently. They both knew that much loss and sacrifice had taken place in this city. It was Belecthor who finally broke the silence.

"I have been rude, my lord. Who is this flower who stands before me?"

"She is my wife, the Lady Eowyn of Ithilien."

"The Lady of the Shield-arm is known in Gondor," Belecthor gasped falling to his knees and kissing the woman's hand. "Thank you," he said thickly.

He got up and saw tears in the Lady's eyes. "Thank you, good Captain," she replied then she smiled. "You are an old flatterer as well as a valiant captain."

"Trust me, Eowyn," said Faramir; "This man could be a merchant if he were not governor of Osgiliath."

"Now you are jesting with me," said Belecthor. "Governor of this ruin?"

"But the King Elessar believes it will once more be a thriving city, a jewel of his realm and he wishes."

"I am a governor?"

"If you will accept it."

"So long as I may return to my home in Emyn Arnen."

"Of course, Belecthor. Emyn Arnen is but a few miles away. You may come and go as you please, governor. I say this as Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien. You will be the fourth most powerful man in the Kingdom of Gondor. Only I, the Prince Imrahil, and the King himself will be more powerful than thou. Now, Belecthor, Eowyn and I wished to find to find some summer homes here."

" Then you have a governor, lord and lord, if I may say in the new Osgiliath there will be more summer homes than you can imagine."

And with that the Steward of Gondor, Lady of Ithilien, and Governor of Osgiliath walked into the new city and a new age.

THE END


End file.
